


looking for pressure points

by redpaint



Series: conflict resolution [3]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Breathplay, Hate Sex, Infidelity, M/M, Masturbation, Phone Sex, Unhealthy Relationships, covid break 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:20:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23749819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redpaint/pseuds/redpaint
Summary: Seb looks back down at the messages. The first few are the really dirty ones, rough and vulgar in Charles’s imperfect English, but it’s the culmination that sets his traitorous pulse racing.> I know you hate me. I’d let you do anything you want to me.
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Sebastian Vettel
Series: conflict resolution [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1548052
Comments: 17
Kudos: 73





	looking for pressure points

**Author's Note:**

  * For [singlemalter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlemalter/gifts).



> for malter, for your enthusiasm about man to man and true edge and for encouraging this further nonsense. i decided the last one didn't have enough choking in it, actually. so have this.
> 
> this is not nice, probably even more so than the previous fics in this series. also, it includes breathplay, which is always inherently risky. do not use this as a guide, _please._

Seb keeps his phone on silent when he’s working on the bike. It’s been so, so long (forever, really) since he got this much time at home, no obligations for the foreseeable future, just pure solitude. Why would he go and ruin that by constantly staring at a screen? He’s heard that the kids are all streaming themselves now, but living via webcam just seems like its own special kind of hell. He puts on a playlist and leaves his phone on the far end of the workbench, losing himself in grit and grease and the yellowed pages of the owner’s manual, all bracingly _real_ in his hands.

It’s only when he gets up to skip the live version of When The Levee Breaks that he notices he’s got five unanswered messages. One missed call— no voicemail, though. Can anything be _that_ urgent? He grits his teeth. Knowing Charles, he’s probably misplaced his silk Versace underwear and is calling to accuse Seb of stealing it.

He can’t deny there’s something satisfyingly petty about not needing to be at Charles’s beck and call. He’s far enough away that he doesn’t have to engage with this at all. He could just put on the next song and go back to the bike and forget all about Charles again. And maybe that’s what makes it feel like a _choice_ when he hits the call button.

It only rings once. “Sebastian!” Charles’s voice is sing-song and makes it sound like his name has twice as many syllables as it really does. He won’t let himself get prickly already, no. He’s gotten too much distance from this to let it affect him again.

Seb cuts right to the point. “What do you want?”

“Fuck you, trying to get me to beg. You know what I want.”

Seb startles at that. “Fuck _you_ , I don’t. Use your words.”

Charles hesitates for a second. “You didn’t read my messages?” He sounds legitimately confused, which is nothing new for him.

“No.” Seb has always preferred phone calls. Whatever was sent via text was communicated clearer and more quickly when spoken. Especially with Charles, it’s better to excise any possible vagueness, just so they both know exactly where they stand.

Charles laughs. The speaker explodes with static. “I think you should.”

Seb reluctantly puts his phone down and opens up the messages. They’re filthy. Seb’s a respectable racing driver, he’s been around the block more than a few times, but they’re still enough to make his breath catch in his throat.

His face goes hot, his phone somehow magnetic and repulsive all at once. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? What if I wasn’t alone?” He glances towards the house and tries not to let the guilt swallow him whole. He should hang up and block Charles’s number. Anything Charles wants to say to him going forward can go through the team. They can’t keep doing this.

“Oops,” Charles says, completely bloodless.

Seb looks back down at the messages. The first few are the really dirty ones, rough and vulgar in Charles’s imperfect English, but it’s the culmination that sets his traitorous pulse racing.

_> I know you hate me. I’d let you do anything you want to me._

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t reveal a thing. Because Seb doesn’t _hate_ Charles; that’s just projection. Ideally, Seb would merely feel indifferent towards him. Right now it’s just frustration that makes him snappish, petty, and short-tempered in a way he thought he’d given up a long time ago. Charles always comes slinking around Seb’s defenses, looking for pressure points and turning Seb into this person he doesn’t want to be. The game Charles is suggesting is entirely different, one that comes with the seductive promise of total control. The truth is, Seb doesn’t even want it for himself. He just wants to see Charles give it up. To see if he really would.

But Seb isn’t stupid. Any submission Charles offers will invariably end up with him coming out on top. He would rather die than cede any actual power. No, Seb’s seen the cold hunger in his eyes too many times to believe that Charles wants anything less than to stand, triumphant, on a pile of his bones. The only way to win this game is not to play, but he’s already half-hard.

He puts the phone back to his ear, wedging it between his shoulder and his cheek. The sound of Charles panting on the other end makes his skin crawl. “Do you think I’m stupid enough to fall for that?”

“No, I think you want me. But only in the very specific way you’ll let yourself have me. That’s fine. I just want you to do it.” He waits for a response, but Seb doesn’t give him one. If there’s anything the years have taught him it’s that there’s power in patience, in silence. “What, do you need me to humiliate you on the international TV before you can get it up? Take a fucking offer when you get one, _jesus_.”

All this should bounce off him like arrows against a stone wall. He should see Charles’s blatant attempts to rile him for what they are and only acknowledge them in the form of passing pity. Instead, they stick in his belly and send sparks of white-hot rage up his spine. No doubt Charles is contorting his usual pout into a vicious sneer on the other side of the phone. He’s probably already touching himself, probably has been for a while thinking about Seb staring, speechless, at those messages.

“Take your hand off your cock,” Seb instructs, fighting to keep his voice level and steady. The less Charles thinks this affects him the better.

The haughty huff of breath from the other end of the line just confirms Seb’s suspicions. “You’re no fun,” Charles complains, but he doesn’t fight it any more than that.

Seb stares intently at the ground and makes himself say the words. “Now put it on your neck.”

There’s a loud clattering sound and some muffled cursing from Charles’s end of the call. Seb tenses. Maybe this time they’ve gone too far ( _he’s_ gone too far), despite Charles’s seemingly bottomless appetite for depravity. Then what will he be? A married man hiding in the shed, left alone and aching for this perverse inversion of intimacy? _Pathetic_ — he hears it in Charles’s voice.

But no, Charles picks up the phone again, quickly mumbling an apology for dropping it. Seb doesn’t respond again; he just listens as Charles shifts around and sighs. “Okay, I’ve got, uh, I’m— it’s there.” So they’re doing this then. 

Seb sinks down onto the rolling stool in the corner, the one that’s shielded from the door by the workbench. He undoes his belt as quietly as he can and leans back against the cold, gritty wall. “Go on then. Do you really need me to tell you what to do?”

“Why should I?” Charles asks, petulant as always. _Anything you want_ was never going to happen.

Seb ends the call without another word. Charles calls back almost immediately.

“Tell me how I should do it.”

Seb slips his hand into his underwear and suppresses the involuntary hiss that comes from cold fingers on hot skin. “Push your hand up under your jaw. Squeeze the sides. That simple enough for you?”

“Okay,” Charles whispers. “Okay.” Then he goes quiet except for shaky, reedy breaths. It’s too easy to imagine Charles sprawled out on his couch or his unmade bed, one hand gripping the phone, the other on his throat. His cock’s abandoned, but he’s probably still just as hard as he was. Seb remembers how he’d been in Brazil, grinding down on Seb’s thigh even as it meant pressing his neck harder into Seb’s palm. The rabbit-quick hammering of his pulse under Seb’s thumb. 

The memory is all too visceral, too real. It feels like ice in his veins. But the hand on Charles’s neck now isn’t his hand. No, one of his hands is shoving his jeans down far enough to fit his fingers tight around the base of his dick. The fingernails of the other dig into the knee of his jeans, hard enough to hurt. Charles is nothing more than a slippery phantom between his fingers. Yes, that’s better, that’s _safer_ — then Charles can easily be cordoned off from the concrete reality of Seb’s life.

“Stop,” he bites out, and is immediately rewarded with a deep breath on the other end of the line.

“Now what?” Charles sounds bored and eager all at once, like he always does when they do this. Seb’s not the only one trying not to let on how much he wants this. It’s just a shame Charles is so bad at hiding it in comparison.

“Again, harder. Like you mean it, understand?” 

“You’re a sick bastard,” Charles growls. Seb doesn’t dignify that with a response, even though he has a few choice things he could call Charles in return. “Okay, I will do it.”

And Charles is right, it _is_ sick, but it’s hot, holding the reins on this most basic of Charles’s life functions and pulling back _hard._ He doesn’t even have to be there; Charles does it just because Seb tells him to. On the phone, Seb can hear Charles’s breathing getting fainter. The power is repugnant— it’ll corrupt him absolutely. His hand just moves a little faster on his cock.

Charles is absent in person and on the phone and he’s still turning Seb on so much it hurts. This isn’t indifference, no matter how much he wishes it was.

Charles coughs, stalling Seb’s hand. Seb presses the phone closer to his mouth. “Stop again. How was that?”

Charles breathes deeply again, but this time there’s some real urgency behind it. “Wouldn’t you like to know. Are you jerking off?”

“God, you really are dumb. What do you think?” There’s one spot of precome dripping onto the leg of his pants. Another detail Charles doesn’t need to see.

“Are you close?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” It’s going to be embarrassingly quick, but his thumb’s already inching towards the end call button. When the guilt comes, after, he’ll deal with it alone. His hips are rolling a bit to meet his fist now. He lets his eyes slip closed and focuses on Charles’s sounds. “Once more. Like the last one.”

It sounds like Charles laughs quietly at that. Seb wants to ask him what’s so fucking funny, but then Charles’s breath stops short again and it goes straight to his dick. He’s tense all over. He imagines Charles is too, one hand twisted in his hair while the other one bears down on his throat, eyes screwed shut, back arching, ribs showing through his air-starved chest.

There’s a long, fragile silence between them. Seb’s stroking light and quick over the head of his cock, keeping groans buried deep in his chest. He’s losing track of the time, he should tell Charles to breathe, but he’s so, so close, just another second and he’s going to spill on the oil-smeared floor.

He can’t manage to stifle his gasp as he comes, every nerve going haywire, fucking into his own hand in erratic bursts. He covers it up by chanting, “Stop, stop, stop,” into his phone. Nothing but silence comes from the other side of the call. “Charles? Stop now.”

Seb takes his phone away from his ear to make sure he’s not muted and— the screen’s black. Charles has ended the call. All he sees is his own reflection in the screen’s mirror surface. There’s come drying on his skin, the uncomfortable, _real_ evidence of what they’ve done. He throws an oily rag over the wet spot on the floor and sinks lower onto the stool, uncomfortably aware of what he looks like. He’s not angry yet, but he’ll be on the way there soon. Once the endorphins wear off and he can think straight.

His phone lights up with another message. He should ignore it. Better yet, he should throw the whole phone away and never look back. Still, he opens it up. It’s a grainy, low-angle image, but it’s unmistakably Charles’s cock, wet and shiny with his own come. Seb curses under his breath. Another message, almost a response:

_> Sorry, I had something I needed to take care of._

Seb stares down at the screen, willing the typing dots to appear again. Another shot of viciousness, whatever vile shit Seb knows Charles can come up with when he’s fucked-out and uninhibited. Some flicker of acknowledgment that will shake this feeling that _he’s_ the desperate one. But nothing else comes.

 _There’s_ the anger. Charles never fails to pull it out of him, even when he’s finally leaving Seb alone, just like he wanted. Now it’s just him and his silent phone and his guilt and his anger and the smell of sex that’s going to cling to his clothes when he leaves the shed. No, he’s not _really_ alone; there’s a piece of Charles in everything. Not that he would ever admit it. He wouldn’t give Charles the satisfaction.

**Author's Note:**

> title from swing by boy harsher:
> 
> _His teeth are one of the better parts,  
>  I like seeing them, his eyes close up a little when they come out.  
> His fingers are so long, like I never noticed before._
> 
> _I'm just sitting here, looking for pressure points,  
>  but really I just want to take his hands and place them in my mouth,  
> really just want him to push his thumbs deep into my neck_
> 
> tumblr @ redpaint
> 
> standard disclaimer: this is pure fiction/don't link it outside of ao3/keep it away from drivers etc
> 
> every kudos and comment is lovingly embroidered onto an ancient tapestry and hung upon the wall to warm my home


End file.
